Goshawk Squadron (5 page)

“You say that He … that He was … uh … cleaning the windows,” Woodruffe said uncomfortably. “I don't suppose … What I mean is, there's not the slightest chance that—”

“The raiment was quite distinctive,” Gabriel said. “Also the beard.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Woodruffe nodded strenuously. “Just a thought.”

“What
was it you said He said?” Rogers asked.

“The exact words were: ‘This is all a lot of bull,'” Gabriel said, “delivered in a firm, but not angry, tone of voice. It left no doubt in my mind as to what to do.”

“What
did
you do?” Lambert asked.

“I joined the RFC.”

“Hmm.” Woodruffe chewed thoughtfully. “And do you feel that you are nearer your God here than you were in Sheffield?”

“Really, Woody!” Lambert exclaimed. “What a question to ask.”

“Oh,” Woodruffe said. “Ah. Sorry.”

The meal burbled on. Lambert ordered brandy and cigars, forgot that he had ordered them, and ordered them again. Only Gabriel remained more or less expressionless. Woodruffe sprawled and studied the man's inscrutable marble bust of a head. He felt a desire to walk around behind it and suddenly bawl
“Gas attack!”
in its left ear. It was not natural for a man to drink and yet look so sober, especially when his normal appearance was so depressingly competent and controlled.

“I say,” Richards said to Rogers, “did you really mean what you said about the French firing on you last week?”

“Last week and every week. They never miss a chance.”

“But I thought there were signals, and no-firing zones, and things. Can't you pop off a Very light and shut them up, or something? I mean, suppose they were to hit you … think how awful that would be.”

Rogers smiled, and swirled his brandy about.

“I mean to say, a joke's a joke,” Richards said.

“Oh, well.” Rogers lit Woodruffe's cigar, and then his own. Richards blinked uneasily.

“If I were a French gunner I'd fire at everything that flew within range,” Lambert said.

“But what possible good would that do, if it was a British plane?” Richards demanded. “I mean, be serious for a minute.”

“It would make
me
feel better,” Lambert said, as if that ended everything.

Richards stared from Lambert to Rogers. “Well, you chaps surprise me,” he said. “If any blasted French gunner started popping off at me, I'd soon go down and put fifty rounds behind his left ear for him.”

“Which would prove that he was right all the time,” Woodruffe said.

“Certainly not. How can anyone expect—”

“Oh, tish and tosh,” Rogers said easily. “Look, the frogs have had an awful war. Inconceivably horrible, tragic, appalling,
wasteful
war. Not much worse than ours, maybe, except that it's their country, so they
feel
worse.” Richards glowered, red and resentful. “Don't look like that, old chap, it's true. All they want is to be left alone. If anybody disturbs them they shoo him away. Bang-bang, go home, whoever you are. Don't you see, they don't want to win the war—
they want the war to end.”

“Not the same thing at all,” Woodruffe said, yawning.

“But we're Allies, we're helping them,” Richards protested.

“Extremely dubious, that,” Lambert said. “The frog is our natural enemy. We should be fighting
him,
only God got the history books wrong.”

“Well …” Richards shrugged, too disgusted to speak.

“I know, old chap,” Rogers said.
“Ce n'est pas magnifique, mais c'est la guerre.”

“Well, all right then, how do they think they're ever going to end the war like that?”

“Ahah,” said Woodruffe, “they don't. We're going to end it for them, us and these well-fed Americans. The French don't want to fight the Germans anymore.”

“But they don't mind shooting down a few of our planes.”

“Look,” Lambert said, filling the glasses. “You know the answer, don't you?”

“Don't fly over the French lines,” Gabriel said promptly.

There was a pause.

“I'm sorry, but that's simply not good enough,” Richards said. He was still angry.

“Nothing ever is, when you get right down to it,” Lambert said.

“Except, perhaps, this wine,” Woodruffe said, “which we should now finish up and toddle off home … Waiter, the bill …
L'addition
… Good God,” he said. “This looks like the balance sheet of a small yet vigorous company. I can't pay that. Dudley, you have young eyes: show me where the decimal point falls.”

“There,” said Rogers.

“How awful! … Did we really eat all that? I suppose we must have done. Turn out your pockets, everyone.”

They piled their scruffy French bills on the tablecloth and weighed them down with battered coins. Woodruffe sorted through the heap and kept a running total. The others lay back and finished the wine.

“I think this will just be enough,” Woodruffe said, “to cover the tip. Dudley, how much is that car of yours worth?”

“I'm not walking home,” Lambert said.

“I have a fairly valuable pocket-watch,” Richards suggested.

“No, no, dear boy, what we need here is more in the nature of a small jeweler's shop,” Woodruffe said. “But the offer is appreciated.”

“Do you think they would take a check?” Rogers asked.

“Only if they're a great deal more gullible than they look.”

Rogers produced a checkbook bound in quarto with pale green Moroccan leather and secured with a gold clip. When he opened it, a gilt-embossed crest glinted dully on handmade cream paper. “Suppose it were a check from …” he peered at the printing “… Dom Antonio da Terceira e Silva, Count of Vila Real Maior, drawn on the House of Rothschild in London? Might that make a difference?”

“Where the deuce did you get that?” Richards asked.

“Found it in the car … Worth trying, d'you think?”

“By all means,” Woodruffe said. “The gold leaf alone should pay for the wine. Wouldn't it be as well for one of us to impersonate this count thingummy? Who speaks Spanish?”

“I have a little Swiss-Romande,” Gabriel said.

“I think this is Portuguese,” Rogers said. “It belonged to a Portuguese.”

“Well, you know some Portuguese,” Lambert encouraged him.

“Only a very little.”

“So use it sparingly. Give him the bill, Woody.”

“Obrigado,”
murmured Rogers. He filled in a check, using a florid hand, and touched up the capitals with generous filigree. He took a swig of wine, dashed off a long signature, proudly angled, and tossed the check to Lambert,
“Obrigado,”
he said.

Lambert signaled the head waiter and handed him the check, indicating Rogers.
“Merci, m'sieu,”
the head waiter said.
“Obrigado,”
Rogers replied. He stood up. The others followed. Waiters hobbled over to remove chairs and help with coats. When all were ready, Rogers held up a hand for silence. He wore his greatcoat like a cloak; in his right hand was a glass of brandy. He saluted all present.
“Obrigado,”
he told the waiters. He drank down the brandy, handed the glass to Lambert and indicated the fireplace. Lambert hurled the glass into it. The waiters cheered weakly, and turned hastily to the stack of money as Rogers led the party to the door.

Here the head waiter was waiting for them with a smile of deep misery. Bowing, holding the check carefully by its edges, he began a speech of profound regret and lamentable necessity. Rogers took a medal from his pocket and pinned it on the man's lapel.
“Obrigado,”
he said, and went out. Lambert shook the head waiter's hand. Woodruffe shook his hand and embraced him. Richards saluted him. Gabriel brushed the scurf off his shoulders. Then they were out in the street.

Chuck Martin came up to them as they were getting into the car. “Enjoy the meal?” he asked.

“Excellent,” Rogers said. “Thanks very much. Any time you're near Pont St. Martin, drop in and we'll take you for a flight. Just ask for Goshawk Squadron, RFC.”

“I'll do that.”

They drove home at high speed in bright moonlight. The car was warm and comfortable; the road was straight and empty; and Rogers bowled along the crown at an exhilarating pace. “So the checkbook was in this car?” Lambert asked.

“In one of the pockets. I found it yesterday. Jolly handy, what?”

“Did you find the medal here, too?” asked Gabriel.

“Certainly not! That was my medal. Some Belgian general was going around awarding medals to any unit with twenty-five percent casualties in one week, so we qualified. I was the only one at home when he called.”

“No, you weren't. I was in,” Woodruffe said.

“Were you, Woody? Well, he fancied me, that's all. You can have the next one.”

“I'd sooner have the car.”

“No, I need the car. We shall be starting cricket soon, and some form of transport will be essential.”

“There won't be any more cricket when the war ends,” Gabriel said flatly. Rogers looked around in surprise. “What on earth makes you say that?” he asked.

“It's true. You haven't been home as recently as Richards and I. The whole world's changing. People aren't going to put up with the old 1914 standards anymore. They've sacrificed too much for that. They want a real say in their future. They want better lives, better jobs, better homes. There won't be room for longwinded rituals like cricket.”

“What absolute bloody nonsense!” Rogers swerved indignantly. “Of course there will be cricket, what the blazes d'you think we're fighting for, the whole purpose of the entire operation is to get back to a world where chaps like you and me can play as much cricket as we want to. Besides—”

“We can't ‘get back' to any world. That's gone forever. We can only get forward. The leisured class has had its day.”

“What rot! The only reason we're going to win this war is that we have some decent sportsmen in command, and the Huns have a lot of Prussian pig-stickers. Look at old MNT Matthews, captain in the Grenadier Guards, finest
opening bat Sussex ever had, killed leading his men over the top at Mons! Look at Martin Stanhope, captained Oxford,
brilliant
slip-fielder, absolutely brilliant, died of wounds after the Somme! What did they die for, if not for the country they loved? Eh? Answer me that!”

“It's already been decided,” Gabriel said. “This war has killed cricket.”

“Poppycock! There will
always
be cricket, because cricket makes men, just as men make cricket. You can't—”

“Look out!” shouted Woodruffe.

Rogers jerked around just as the front wheels ran off the road and hit the frozen ruts of the verge. For five terrifying seconds he fought the car's determination to bounce into the ditch; and then they were back on the road, running smoothly again. “Bloody French roads!” Rogers said. “Bloody Portuguese cars! Everybody all right?”

“Slow down, God damn you, and watch where you're going,” Woodruffe said thickly. He had hit his nose on the windscreen, and it was pouring blood.

“For Christ's sake, Dudley,” Lambert said. “What's your bloody hurry?” He had been thrown sideways against a door, and was massaging a bruised ear.

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Pont St. Martin. Rogers kept to a safe speed. “Anyway,” he said as the camp came in sight, “I bet you anything you like we'll all still be playing cricket after the war's over.” Nobody argued.

At eight thousand feet the top of the cloud was flattened and slightly tattered, like spume beaten white on a heaving sea. The sun shone up here, having nothing to stop it, and Woolley flew low across the endless expanse, his wheels ripping casually through ridges and humps. Behind and on either side flew Gabriel and the third replacement pilot, Delaforce, his SE5a patched up with a new propeller to replace the one which had smashed itself against the panicking birds.